


the only heaven I'll be sent to, is when I'm alone with you

by aye1captain



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: 6 pages of foreplay @ two paragraphs of actual action, Bottom Ronan, M/M, Sex, Top Adam, im a mess, lovely lover boys, pynch - Freeform, ronan is a mess too, sounds like poetry at places, take me to church by hozier but make it more gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24894409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aye1captain/pseuds/aye1captain
Summary: From here on, he can only moan, and tremble, and shake, and whisper, and plead for more, and hope that Adam gives him more, and Adam keeps giving. Ronan melts in his hands, burns up and down, inside out, over and over, and over again, until he’s on fire, and until he’s no more.
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Kudos: 118





	the only heaven I'll be sent to, is when I'm alone with you

**Author's Note:**

> timestamp: sometime in trk, the demon is there, the Cabeswater is not undone yet, but Opal is already there, and Aurora is still alive (ouch, spoiler), and nightwash is already a thing, and they are old enough to be doing this.

The church is an animal presence in front of him. It’s big, loud, holy, with the wooden cross and the wooden door and the wooden steps, and all eyes are on Ronan. He can only do but pray that Adam is at home, that he’s not busy, that he wouldn’t mind him, that he’s not interfering with anything, that he’s allowed to be here.  
He can only pray, and in the evergreen shadow he does: words a faint whisper, barely a thought, nothing he’d ever admit muttering to himself, short and to the point, deep and with no sense or purpose at all.

_Please._

He runs up the stairs, breathes out and enters the lobby. He doesn’t think of Declan, doesn’t think of Matthew, doesn’t think of Aurora and Opal who usually come with the thoughts of Matthew, doesn’t think of Gansey, Blue or Noah, he doesn’t think at all.  
He stares into the chapel and doesn’t go in because it’s 8:26 on a Tuesday night and because he’s not here for that God. He stares into the chapel, takes in the smell of the candles, balsams and oils, then nods as if acknowledging his privilege and expressing his gratitude, and turns right. Up the staircase, the walls’ eyes on him, God's eyes on him, Cabeswater’s eyes on him, and then the door’s in front of him.

It’s only unlocked because Adam is there, and with him Cabeswater, and with it its longing trust. Cabeswater lets him in, wants him in, invites him in, and yet Ronan isn’t here for it.

He’s here for Adam.  
He knocks.

Adam opens within a heartbeat.

Ronan doesn’t think of Cabeswater.

“Hey,” he breathes out.  
“Hey,” Adam says. His voice is soft and raw, and tender, and loving, and caring; his eyes are all over Ronan at once, and it’s not creepy, impossible or suffocating, it’s loud and explosive. Ronan is burning up, Ronan is burning up under his stare. Adam’s hands dart up to touch, and Ronan wants him to, _needs_ him to touch but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks away and peaks in the hall, asking, “Everything’s okay?” 

He’s worried.

Ronan shakes his head. His thoughts are a soup, his thoughts are the ocean, his thoughts are liquified and nonsense, his thoughts are _Adam Adam Adam Adam_ , his words are, “Adam.” His words don’t help relieve Adam’s anxiety at all, and Ronan pulls himself together and points inside the room, “You busy?”

He could’ve called, texted, asked Gansey to call or text, go to sleep, dream something, hang out with Opal; he could’ve done anything at all but he couldn’t because he didn’t want to. He wonders if Adam can see it in his eyes. He wonders if Cabeswater is whispering to him right now. He wonders if Adam was busy and if he’s going to send him away. He wonders if Adam would kiss him before closing the door in his face, but all this wonder is more sizzling nonsense because Adam shakes his head. He’s not busy.  
It doesn’t take longer than a second for him to respond; Ronan lives through ages and centuries of burning love, and affection, and desire, and lusting, wanting, _needing_ in this second.

“Come in.”

Ronan does.

He doesn’t hear the door close and he doesn’t think of Cabeswater. He thinks only of Adam, of his eyes so serious, his forehead so creased, his hair so ruffled—was he asleep?—his arms so careful, his fingers so long and calloused. He thinks of Adam, and Adam hears his thoughts, or maybe he just stands quietly for too long, or maybe he really should think of Cabeswater because these lovely and loved fingers reach out and weave themselves between Ronan’s as if Adam gets him without him having to say anything at all.  
His breath hitches. Adam steps closer and brushes his lips over Ronan’s ear.

“You sure you’re okay?” He asks, his voice barely a sound at all but Ronan never heard anything clearer than this sound. He doesn’t think that it’s a church, doesn’t think that it’s a school night and Adam probably has work and homework to go through, doesn’t think of anything at all because Adam is here, so close to him, his body heat setting Ronan on fire. A shiver runs up his spine.  
“Yeah,” he shudders. Yes, he is okay. “Could be much better, though,” he says, trying for a joke and failing miserably. Adam stiffens behind him but doesn’t let go of his hand. Better than that, his fingers tighten around Ronan’s, warm and strong, and now Ronan does think of Cabeswater, and its vines, and leaves, and strong smell of the rain, and its magician. Or maybe, he’s been thinking of Adam all along.

“Yeah?”  
“Yeah.”

It’s hot and stupid and doesn’t make any sense, and Adam’s quiet, and hot, and totally not stupid, and Ronan wants him so much, and he turns on the spot to face him. He clearly doesn’t expect Adam to be so close but neither of them back down—they stay, and stare, and hold each other’s fingers, and Adam’s eyes are dark, so dark; no demon could ever cause this darkness: it’s full of life and fire, it’s burning them both, and neither seems to mind.  
Adam doesn’t touch him any more than he already is and he doesn’t move, neither in, nor out of their weird dizzying arrangement. He hesitates.

Seconds burn hours. Hours burn seconds. They are burning each other.

“It’s a church.”  
“It’s better,” Ronan whispers and finally leans in to kiss him.

It’s not a church now. It’s above, it’s the bottom of Heaven, it’s two Gods, it’s a God and a king, a God and a magician, a God and his best creation. It’s Adam. It doesn’t matter to Ronan what happens a story below because he’s not there; he’s on the second floor, next to a management office, in a tiny room with a crooked ceiling and a beautiful boy, who’s kissing him back, hungry, yet wonderfully soft and careful, pushing in, yet barely brushing Ronan’s lips with his.  
Ronan whimpers.

Ronan doesn’t whimper but nor does he burn down with need, and yet here they are.

Adam almost smiles. Does he smile? He does, and the smile is as hot and deep as his stare, and Adam finally leans into the embrace, hands trailing up Ronan’s back under his T-shirt to move them closer, to make them one.

“You sure?”  
“I’m not a twelve year old, for fuck’s sake,” Ronan answers but he’s nodding. It’s awfully important for Adam to receive consent even knowing that Ronan drove here through the dark Henrietta, drove here of all places to Adam of all people, drove with a sole purpose of this. “Yes, _yes_ , fuck, yes, I’m sure,” he blindly goes for another kiss, and Adam grants him one, covering his lips with his, covering his shoulder blades with his hands, caressing ever so lightly.

Now Ronan hears the door close.  
Now he’s unable to think of anything at all, his body a bare nerve, his head full of need, his arms starving to touch, to push closer, to press in. He doesn’t think.  
He doesn’t think.

He doesn’t think.

Adam does because he’s pushing Ronan towards the bed, tender as light, lips not letting go of Ronan’s, legs carefully stepping over the things on the floor until they are finally at the bed, on the bed, in it, wrapped around each other as if it’s their last day on Earth. It very well might be.  
Then it does suddenly feel more like a last on Earth when Adam pulls away and hovers over Ronan. He’s in the sheets, still hot with the memory of Adam’s body, still longing for it, his arms stretched out, and he swears, and he can’t keep his eyes off him. Neither of them can—neither of them try.

Adam is a _magical creature_. A majestic creature, if he’s able to think of higher words, marvelous, sonorous, grand, _regal_. Adam is a magician, Adam is the only magician Ronan would ever need, Adam is the only _God_ , it seems, Ronan would ever stand for, and Adam’s not touching him but for their entwined legs.  
Adam is a wonderful, holy presence. Ronan needs this presence turned unholy and onto him right now, or he might drown in these feelings. He wants it so badly, he’s willing to play along; he needs it so badly, he strains for Adam’s hands and entwines their fingers, too, holding him as tight as humanly possible. He whimpers then, _again_ , “I think you’re misreading the level of my emergency.”

“Am I now?” His voice is soft and playful, and Ronan thinks how wrong Calla was calling _him_ a Snake.  
“How does Cabeswater,” Adam lets go of his left hand and runs his fingers carefully up Ronan’s stomach. Ronan can’t breathe, let alone finish a sentence, and Adam knows it.  
“Mhmm?...”   
“Fuck,” he catches a breath, bends his back upward to reach for those fingers but Adam is already pulling away, “How does Cabeswater let you know it fucking needs you?” He blurts out, and Adam is quiet. His fingers reappear on Ronan’s waist, undoing his belt, as he leans in and whispers right in his lips, barely touching them.  
“And here I expected you to know _that_ of all things,” seeing as Ronan dreamt Cabeswater? He lives now by one knowledge only, and that knowledge is one word, one person, one name, one tongue on his neck.  
“ _Fuck_ , Parrish,” he falls apart with the weight of that knowledge. Adam seems to know this—of all things—because he smiles, hums and trails down Ronan’s chest as his hands are undressing him. Off goes the belt; he unzips his jeans as if he’s been doing this his entire life and tries to pull them off, too. Ronan has to lift his hips for this, and Adam’s laughing in the quietest of ways, and he’s kissing his stomach now, and Ronan’s fisting the sheets, on his mind—nothing.

With every touch, he’s smoke and embers, with every kiss, he’s dry grass, Amazon forests and oil spills. He’s trying to say something but all that comes out are more swear words that Gansey would definitely disapprove of; he’s trying to do something—to reach up, to pull Adam closer, to move in such a way that Adam’s touching him more—but all he can do is hold onto Adam’s shoulders in the way night horrors held onto him, and try to not lose track of reality because it sure doesn’t feel real.  
Adam doesn’t make it any better by freezing right above his crotch, lips fiery and parted in the most teasing of ways.

“Cabeswater pleads,” he says, words and smile of an outrageous liar but Ronan grew up with one and couldn’t care less for it. He feels his whole body shiver, fingers grabbing Adam’s and pulling them to his face. He kisses them, sloppy, wet, shuddering every other breath.  
“Like that?” Adam’s eyes are the darkest of nights.  
“Louder,” he whispers back, not moving an inch away from where his head is positioned. His words burn brighter than hellfire.  
“Fucking _fuck_ me already, Parrish,” he spits out, but it’s hungry and undone, and needing so badly, and it makes Adam smile with a corner of his mouth. He kisses Ronan but does nothing more until Ronan breaks down, _again_ , murmurs, “Please,” and a moment after Adam opens his mouth and takes Ronan in, and Ronan’s only thoughts are _please_ and _Adam_ , and he might, in fact, be speaking them out but he doesn’t know anymore.

Everything is a dream in a way real life could never be and in a way dreams should be for normal people: he loses track of time, loses control over his body and his head, he doesn’t know who’s making these sounds if anyone’s even making them, and he doesn’t care at all.  
It matters only that it’s Adam, and that Adam’s fingers are touching him, and Adam’s hands are holding him, and Adam’s mouth is kissing him, and sucking so hotly, and making these completely different sounds, and together they are a melody, an only song Ronan would listen to till the end of the world.

From here on, he can only moan, and tremble, and shake, and whisper, and plead for more, and hope that Adam gives him more, and Adam keeps giving. Ronan melts in his hands, burns up and down, inside out, over and over, and over again, until he’s on fire, and until he’s no more. Until Adam’s tongue is off him and until his arms are around his torso, holding him close and tender, holding him there, holding him down, bringing him back.  
He feels ethereal. He feels what he thinks Adam should feel coming back from a scrying session but different—lounder, better, more.

He is _more_ and _fuck_ and _wow, Parrish_ and, “Why’d you stop?” He’s all muttering and lips because Adam stopped too soon, because there’s still him to take care of, because Ronan is not planning to wrap up just yet, because the dream is still going. Because he’s still jittery and vibrating with explosive energy, and Adam is right here. Ronan kisses him.  
“You’re ready for more?” He sounds so _good_. Ronan cups his hand in his and draws it to his mouth, eyes fixed on Adam’s, still dark as the nightwash, dark as the cavern with bones under Cabeswater, dark as night horrors’ hate and Kavinsky’s despair. Ronan slowly licks Adam’s index and middle fingers before putting them in his mouth, before hearing Adam exhale, all thunder and lightning. How could he not be ready?

He pulls away, and a soft sound escapes their lips—a unison, a union, the best song. Adam closes his eyes and tugs Ronan on top of him, hands on his hips, fingers caressing his thighs in the most tender of ways; and Ronan leans in to kiss him again: his lips, his cheeks, his neck, Adam’s apple he places a bite next to, marveling in Adam’s shivers; lower, lower, lower. He pulls Adam’s T-shirt off of him—quick, ragged breathing—and he takes off his own next, throwing them both away. His lips are on Adam’s rib cage now, tongue counting down from _one, two, three, twelve,_ sucking on a bleak beauty spot in the centre of his stomach, and going all over again.  
Adam is at his mercy, fully and openly, and Ronan’s relishing in it—his fingers are already below the belt, touching, stroking, tugging, until Adam is finally making sounds of his own.

He’s always so quiet.  
He’s so quiet, Ronan is willing to stall for as long as it takes to take him apart, to set him on fire, to make him beg and plead, and shudder, and moan audibly. He’s kissing Adam’s lower stomach, unable to keep a light smile off his face; one of his hands finds Adam’s, fingers entwined for a moment, and then Ronan is sucking on them. This makes Adam tremble, and bend, and falter, and lurch up—Ronan is keeping him down. As slow as humanly possible, he’s wrapping his mouth around his fingers, holding their hands carefully in the air, while the spares are mingled together by their legs.  
When he lets go, it’s to hear Adam groan and pull his jeans down. When he’s done with that, he’s on top of him again, kissing everywhere.

“I,” Adam croaks but Ronan doesn’t let him finish, closing their lips on each other. Adam’s hands are all over Ronan now, fingers running over his burning back, fingers running down, fingers touching carefully, fingers asking permission. This is so not enough. Ronan twists and bends to get more of it, get Adam to do more, to do something, to do it right now.  
Adam stills him, shuddering, sighing, breathing, yearning.

“May I?”  
“Fuck, _yes_.”

Adam’s hands are all over _Ronan_ now, fingers brushing, petting, fondling, until they are yet again in Ronan’s mouth, quick, momentary, and then it’s finally _enough_ and _in_ and _everywhere at once_ , and Ronan feels full and complete, and he’s moaning long and loud, and Adam is moaning, too.

It’s not rushed, it’s wonderfully careful and tender, it’s Adam not letting go of his lips unless they both break out to breathe, or whisper, or let out a sound, it’s Adam’s fingers twisted in his, it’s Adam’s full length in him, it’s them one person, it’s everything unmaking him—it’s _Adam_ unmaking him—in the most beautiful way. It’s Cabeswater, it’s mahogany with his eyes closed and deep green with his eyes open, it’s lights, and suns, and dream _things_ , and nothing’s even been closer, hotter, better, faster, and it takes them another millenia to come to their senses, and Adam’s arms are protectively around Ronan, and this feeling is second to none.

“Fuck,” he breathes out when he’s able to breathe again.  
“You kiss your mother,” Ronan shuts him up by kissing him.   
“You,” he says. “I kiss _you_ with this mouth. Haven’t heard any complaints yet.”

And it’s all soft, and delicate, and fond, and careful, and stunningly, magnificently theirs. _Adam_ is stunningly, magnificently _his_. Ronan could get used to this.

At the edge of his consciousness he understands that Adam will wake him up in an hour or so, that Adam will have to get up himself in less than that, and yet Ronan allows himself to slip away.

“Tamquam,” he whispers.  
“Alter idem,” he hears before this dream blurs into a different one.

**Author's Note:**

> fucking fuck this was a RIDE.  
> you can tell by the first couple of paragraphs I didn't think it through as well as I should've and you can tell by the rapid finish that I'm not good at finishing (I am also not good at this kind of works BUT HERE WE ARE.)
> 
> the word tender was only used 5 times but it feels like I wrote that word only, over and over, and over again
> 
> thank you for your attention, please don't be disappointed in me


End file.
